


Needful Things

by oizys



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Obsessive Behavior, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oizys/pseuds/oizys
Summary: When the future is too bitter to accept, what else can be done but to go back and rewrite it?For Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, the answer seems simple enough - if only they could find one another.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Newt Scamander, Draco Malfoy & Newt Scamander, Draco Malfoy & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Tina Goldstein/Newt Scamander
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	1. Prologue

1947

He simply should have known better by now than to blindly follow, Newt supposed. After all, it wasn’t the first time that he had been led off in some strange direction by the enigmatic Albus Dumbledore — and it was a known fact by all that Dumbledore was the type who marched to the beat of his own drum. But Newt had always been too trusting, and now seated at a cramped table in a dingy pub in muggle London, it became glaringly clear: perhaps this time he had accepted more than he would be able to comfortably handle. 

Albus, with his auburn beard trimmed short and neat, gazed upon him serenely. His warm, grey corduroy winter coat was pulled tight around him, the double breasted buttons done up snugly. The smoothed lapels revealed a knotted blue silk tie, and although the professor had opted to remove his hat upon entering the muggle pub, the chill from the icy winter wind outside that lingered inside had obviously encouraged him to keep as many layers on as he could. Usually, Newt found that it was Dumbledore who commanded any space they were in — today, however, this was not the case. Newt shifted his gaze nervously from Albus’s kindly face to the man who sat opposite his former professor — unlike Albus, there was absolutely nothing familiar about this man: he was incredibly pale with sharp and defined features that were schooled into an unreadable facade — Newt already felt sure, however, that the man before him was looking down his tall, patrician nose at him, silently picking him apart and passing judgement.

Newt swallowed thickly and returned to his observations — the man’s hair was so shockingly platinum blond it might have otherwise been described as white, pushed back messily from his face in a way that seemed too perfect to be unplanned; his overall pale colouring coupled with the fact that he was dressed entirely in the darkest of blacks made him quite the startling figure. Obviously tall and surprisingly thin, it was hard to place the age of the man before him— on one hand, Newt was sure that the man was, at least physically, no older than twenty five. But there was something so hard about him; like someone who had endured great horrors, he wore the face of one who had experienced terrible, brutal things. 

It was his eyes, however, that made Newt want to sink down in his seat and disappear — grey eyes unlike which Newt had ever seen before on a human, like molten steel, they churned with unspoken secrets that Newt felt deep in his bones he would rather not know. This was a dangerous man, Newt’s instincts, honed from years of dealing with potentially deadly beasts, screamed silently within him. This was a wizard who dabbled in darkness — someone to be vigilant of.

“Newt, let me introduce you to Draco Malfoy.” It was Dumbledore who spoke first, breaking Newt’s uncomfortable trail of thought. “Draco, this is my former student and friend, Newt Scamander.” 

“Malfoy?” Newt muttered, eyes darting between the two men before him — it was a name he recognised well. 

Draco’s face twisted but he did not speak and Dumbledore took this as his queue to lean forwards, blue eyes bright and voice hushed. “Newt, I have placed my trust in you numerous times before and I must again today ask of you a great favour.”

Newt leaned back, back hitting the wall of the booth they were seated in. “I am assuming this is all in the utmost confidence.” 

“It is.” For the first time since he had entered the grimy muggle pub, Draco Malfoy spoke. “My circumstances are... unprecedented, to say the least.” Euphonious and smooth in the way only a born and bred pure blooded wizard could be, the low manner in which he spoke verged on the edge of a drawl, yet there was a sharpness to Draco’s tone that made it clear he was entirely serious. 

“Mister Malfoy is from an alternate timeline.” Dumbledore said simply. “He has travelled back in the hopes to right wrongs before they can be enacted.”

For a moment Newt simply absorbed what he had heard, brain whirring. He knew Albus was not the type to play a prank or lie to him, which meant what he had just heard had to be the truth. 

Quickly, panic set in.

“You have got to be kidding me.” The words left Newt in a startled hiss. “I may be a magizoologist, Albus, but even I know how incredibly dangerous excessive time travel is. The implications this could have are disastrous.” He turned his eyes to Draco, who was staring back at him darkly. “You do realise what you’ve done by travelling back? By virtue of you being here you’ve already completely altered timelines, wiped entire bloodlines from existence—“

Draco cut him off. “You don’t think I considered these things beforehand? I’m no fool.” 

“You do realise you may not exist anymore when you return, right?” Newt didn’t back down.

“I won’t go back.” Draco half snarled. “Anything is better than where I’ve come from. I need to alter the timeline entirely, I need to ensure it can’t possibly come to pass.” 

Newt gaped at Draco, stunned by the venom in his tone— the man before him was on a suicide mission. “You’re mad.”

Albus cleared his throat. “I know it is hard to accept or even understand, Newt, but Mister Malfoy has shown me memories of the future and I’m afraid to say that I believe the means justify the ends, whatever the ends may be.” 

“He’s shown you the future?!” Newt half choked. The gravity of the situation was simply too much for Newt to form into coherent words to express. He dragged his eyes up to the smoke stained ceiling then back down again, running a hand across his face as he breathed in deeply to try and compose himself. “This is bad, very bad.”

“Nothing monumental, Newt. Nothing that reveals more than what I need to know.” Albus placated him. “Rather than memories it’s more apt for me to describe them as images. Mister Malfoy was very careful not to put me on any wayward paths.” 

“Images of what.” Newt glared, distrustful. 

For a moment, a haunted expression shuttered across Draco’s face. As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. 

“The war.” 

Newt turned to Dumbledore, expression stunned. “The war?” 

“A war of which the likes you can scarcely comprehend.” Albus murmured. “The things I’ve been shown...” There was a film over his face — it took Newt a moment to realise it was fear he saw, clouding Albus’s normally bright eyes. 

Unsettled, Newt turned once more to Draco. “Why not just alter events from your own timeline?” 

“Because things were already in motion here.” Draco replied simply. He paused, as if debating whether or not to speak. “I came with someone.”

Newt counted to five slowly in his head, taking in the dingy pub with its peeling walls and grimy floors in an effort to ground himself. “You came with someone” He deadpanned. “Where are they, then?” 

For the first time since they had met, Draco’s facade crumpled — he was torturing himself, Newt registered belatedly.

When Draco spoke, the words left him half strangled:

“I lost her.”


	2. One.

1942

The girl — no, woman — had blood in her lungs.

Tom could tell by the sound of her breathing; sharp irregular breaths that rattled and hissed in her windpipe. Every now and again a shallow, dry cough rattled sickeningly in her chest before exploding out of her gasping mouth. He could clearly make out her face from his position above her — drawn in pain, bloodless and still half slack with shock after the impact of her arrival— with his wand drawn, he stared down at her, perplexed, bewildered, perhaps even half afraid. 

He had, after all, just torn a portion of his soul away from the whole — his nerves were alight, zinging uncomfortably with something akin to electricity, his own chest aching dully from the force of the procedure. Her sudden appearance seemed an ill timed omen of sorts — precisely when he parted with a section of his very soul, she had manifested in the epicentre of a silent explosion that expanded out for a matter of moments before imploding back in on itself. The room had barely trembled, yet Tom had felt his bones shake from the force of the magic. 

He stared, fascinated, apprehensive. The woman on the floor, behind the blood and gore that matted her hair and stained her skin, had a clammy, pale face — Tom supposed he didn’t look too much different after performing the darkest of magic. These things took their toll, regardless of preparation or willingness. 

Tom had witnessed death before — Myrtle hadn’t put up a fight, she had been weak and death had claimed her easily — the woman before him was dying, yet she seemed unwilling to go. Tom almost found it admirable, if it weren’t all so sickening. He clutched his diary to his side, fingers whitening from the pressure of his grip as he observed cooly. 

With a bubbling gasp, the woman heaved upright abruptly, fingers scrabbling against the cool tiles of the bathroom as if to find purchase on which to ground herself. Blood sprayed in a fine mist from her mouth across Tom’s uniform — shoes and pant hems he had made sure to polish and iron to perfection, ruined in a moment. He twitched, wand still pointed at her head. The tension in his body was so tight that his muscles felt on the verge of snapping — her wild eyes spun across the bathroom before landing on him.

The seconds that passed felt like an eternity — blood caked her hair down to the sides of her skull, matting what he could tell would normally be a head of righteous brown curls into a congealed mass. A button nose, shapely lips that were pale and trembling, big brown doe eyes — she was terribly thin —

Before Tom could finish his chain of thought, she was moving — lurching forwards so quickly he could barely react, the woman grabbed him around the legs and pulled them straight out from underneath him. The motion was so violent that he had no chance of righting himself — he fell backwards, the back of his head cracking against the floor. Tom only had time to let out a startled shout, his automatic expulso hitting the opposite wall with a deafening crack as his wand was knocked askew by the woman’s violent attack. Black dots flared in his vision — she was upon him, teeth bared wildly and fingers scraping across his skin painfully. There was so little human about the woman in that moment. 

The slicing hex he managed to direct her way slid across her cheek, flesh peeling open and blood spraying down onto his upturned face. He had been expecting magic — nothing so physical and barbaric. She seemed oblivious to the wound as her bony fingers scraped and pulled; Tom realised with a start that she was trying to pry his diary from his hand. He released it with a strong flick of his wrist and he watched as it slid it across the tiled floor into the nearest toilet stall. He didn’t fail to notice the way the woman’s head snapped up and followed the movement, hungry, relentless. Her grip slackened, her intent to go after the diary clear. He was unimportant to her, Tom realised — it was his diary she wanted. 

Vision having cleared somewhat, Tom jerked his hips up, knocking her askew. Using his body mass to his advantage, he rolled, pulling the woman with him until she was pinned beneath him. He hadn’t fought like this since the early days of his upbringing at Wools — his heart thumped wildly, blood whooshing in his ears — he hadn’t felt this alive in so long. The woman let out an almost inhuman shriek of rage, beautifully straight, white teeth biting down into the flesh of his forearm so suddenly that Tom could only manage a hoarse hiss of pain as he rolled off her. 

The two scrabbled across the ground in opposite directions from one another, struggling to stand on their feet after their violent tousle on the floor. He could hear the woman straining to rise, her breathing harsh and pained. At the same moment he righted himself, she had risen, chest heaving. Luck was on Tom’s side, however, diary strategically behind him and wand pointed once more directly at her, the two stood facing one another, sound of their panted breathing the only thing breaking the silence of the bathroom. 

Tom lowered himself slowly, knees touching to the floor as he reached into the stall with one hand to feel for his diary. Eyes and wand never dropping from his target, Tom rose with diary in hand, gaze hungry as he took in the disheveled and battered woman before him. 

He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to torture the answers he wanted from her, but her face had gone slack, gaze suddenly distant. It was as if someone was speaking to her — her eyes were devoid of emotion and all the tension had melted from her body. She stood blankly, faraway and untouchable. 

Like a black hole imploding, the woman’s figure seemed to fold in on itself, absorbing from the centre out, so quick that if he had blinked he would have missed it. In the place where she had once stood there remained only thin, barely tangible wisps of silvery matter, so light and airy they might have otherwise been invisible. Within a matter of seconds, they too faded into nothingness.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, only sixteen and already a murderer, let his wand arm drop to his side. For several seconds he simply stood, so still that he could have passed for a Grecian statue. 

In his mind, he had just faced death — and won.


	3. two.

1948.  
  
Tina had been twenty five when she had first met Newt — the same age as Draco Malfoy now. Now middle aged, she felt as though she could look back on her past self and pass an unbiased judgement: Yes, it was true that she had been hotheaded when it came to pursuing what she felt was right, and certainly it had been her passionate nature that had on multiple occasions led her into harms way — but could these things really be called faults if she had acted for the right reasons?

Tina had always sought justice; however, the more she watched Draco Malfoy, the more she was left unsure — what was it he sought? The pureblooded time traveller offered so little of himself that it was hard to come up with any sort of concrete judgement. He was so controlled that there was a palpable air of tension to him at all times until abruptly something would set him off — his bursts of violent emotion were almost fanatic in their intensity but it was the silence that followed was by far the worst — gripped by some sort of horrific depression, Draco would vanish to isolate himself for days, sometimes even weeks.

The first time it had happened, Tina had gone to see him. How a person already so fair skinned could have possibly become paler Tina had no idea, but she felt she were looking at a man on the verge of surrendering to something she had simply been fortunate enough in life to have not yet encountered — the curtains in his room had been drawn and Draco had been lying supine in bed, vacant gaze trained on the ceiling blankly. Gaunt and sickly, his body appeared to have been sapped of all strength. Tina had realised that without the burning fervour with which he conducted himself normally, there was so little left of him he looked on the verge of falling apart.

“What if I fail?”

His voice had been hoarse with disuse, words directed at no one in particular.

Tina had not responded. What was there to say?

Draco continued to speak. “A sign, a clue, anything. Anything would be better than this constant searching.”

Tina had eyed him a moment longer before placing the levitating tray of food she had brought up with her down onto his bedside table. She did not know this young man before her, but she knew him well enough to know that it was not pity he wanted. To pity him was to insult him and everything he had worked so hard for and all of the sacrifices he had had to make along the way.

“What else is there but to search? You won’t be finding any clues or signs locked away like this.”

He had turned his face towards her — hollowed cheeks casting dark shadows across his sharp features. His sunken eyes, cloudy as a storm, appeared to settle on her without truly seeing. Her words had been neither cruel or kind — a simple fact of the matter, stated. She had left him after that, internally shaken by how horrific it had all been.

He had re-emerged the next day, showered and dressed in clean clothes. There was no obvious sign of the mental disturbance he had been suffering barely hours earlier. Tina had eyed him wearily and proceeded to give him a larger serving of lunch than necessary. Regardless of his motivations, he was simply too thin.

Newt had smiled to himself across the table at the sight of his wife heaping mashed potatoes onto their unusual guests’ plate.  
  


* * *

  
Draco’s bouts of instability did not simply stop. There were periods where he seemed driven almost to the point of madness — sleepless nights as he tirelessly investigated, days where he would not eat, weeks he would vanish without a trace on some obscure trip, chasing trails. He would be burning up with a motivation that seemed unending — until abruptly, he burnt out. The flame snuffed, he would float somewhere on the edge — the edge of what exactly, Tina was unsure — but it was during the periods Draco spent torpid with depression that she and Newt worried most.

“We ought to get him out of the house for something other than his research.” Newt spoke softly as he prepared a mix of meats to feed the pregnant crup he had acquired earlier that month. “Its not good for him to be obsessing over the one thing the way he has been.”

Tina stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea with a flick of her wand but did not respond immediately — it was hard to articulate into words how she felt that no matter what they did, she was sure that Draco would always be beyond reach, his mind always constantly spiralling away no matter how hard they tried to ground him.

“Didn’t you have that appointment at Dervish and Banges today about that Bowtruckle infested Japanese drawer set?” Tina offered over the rim of her teacup. “Bring him along. I can go let him know now that you’d like for him to accompany you.”

“Oh yes, great idea.” Newt smiled fondly at his wife, sweeping her dark bobbed hair behind her ear as he leant in to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll set off once I’ve finished morning feedings, so if you could let him know while I do that, that would be perfect.”

Tina smiled. “Don’t you worry, I’ll have him out the door even if it means dragging him out, kicking and screaming.”

Not fond of drama of any kind, Newt grimaced at her description. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands.” Large bowl of freshly prepared raw meat in his hands, Newt half bounded from the room, clearly wanting to be as far away from a possible confrontation as possible. Tina held back a laugh before placing her mug of tea down and heading for the stairs, which she took two at a time.

Personally speaking, Tina had never in her life encountered as heavily warded floor than the one Draco occupied — at first she had felt quite affronted that she had been more or less barred from a section of her own home, even if that section was their scarcely used third floor that consisted only of three rooms in total — but after some reflection she had supposed that she shouldn’t judge too harshly, considering his circumstances.

Tina knocked loudly on the stairwell banister that led to the loft like floor and moments later Draco emerged at the top of the stairs, dressed in his normal black Wizarding robes. He looked down at her for a moment, circles dark beneath his eyes startling but not abnormal. He had obviously been up all night.

“Tina, good morning.” Half a drawl, Draco greeted her. “If you’re here to have me help Newt catch escaped doxies again, please let him know I am completely and entirely occupied and simply cannot come to assist him.”

Tina laughed despite the serious manner in which he spoke to her. “No, no escaped doxies today. But Newt does want you to accompany him to Hogsmeade. There’s a bowtruckle infested drawer set at Dervish and Banges.”

“Of course it would be bowtruckles.” Draco muttered to himself at the mention of the twig like creatures — one of Newt’s favourites. The expression on his pale face was long suffering. “How long will this outing take?”

“I suspect you’ll be home before midday.” Tina responded simply. “And we have been telling people you are Newt’s assistant, after all. It’s good to make an effort to keep up appearances every now and again.” The excuse flowed from her without much thought — half truths were easy to spin stories with.

“Alright.” Draco acquiesced. “I’ll go and get changed.”

Somewhat surprised at how easily the normally unyielding young man had been, Tina wandered back downstairs. Newt would be pleased, at least.  
  


* * *

  
“Its really quite simple,” Newt said more to himself than to the man who stood at his side, eyes trained intently on the beautifully carved Japanese drawer set in front of them which had a number of bowtruckles climbing all over it. “Rather than seeing the bowtruckles attraction to this drawer set as an issue to be fixed, we need to consider it as a sign of the inherent magical property the wood must possess — usually bowtruckle are attracted to trees that make fine wands. The fact these bow truckle continue to gather here to this drawer set must mean the wood is highly magical. It’s made of Japanese cherry wood, isn’t it? A highly prized wand wood in Japan.”

The young shopkeeper looked pained — “Yes, but no one wants to buy a bowtruckle infested drawer set. Isn’t there some way to get rid of them?”

Newt slid open the top drawer which the nearest bowtruckle promptly dove headfirst into. “I suppose a mild repelling charm would do the trick, you’d just have to remember to refresh it whenever it began to wear off. And of course, any potential buyer would have to be reminded to do the same. Otherwise providing some sort of alternative for the bowtruckle would be efficient — planting a beech or black walnut near the home might encourage them away from the drawer, so long as the trees were sowed from a parent tree from a wand making line. Bowtruckle are native to Europe and I can't imagine many have ever come into contact with Japanese cherry trees before — the wood of this drawer is obviously exceptional and for these bowtruckle, something entirely new and fascinating.”

The shop keeper groaned. “Those are hardly permanent or guaranteed fixes. There’s a potential buyer coming within the half hour, surely there’s something more to be done.”

Newt suppressed a sigh. “Bowtruckle are persistent creatures. You’d do best to be honest about the drawers properties and the bowtruckles attraction to it. I can take the bowtruckle that are currently on the drawer, but more will come unless you start to take the preventative measures I’ve already mentioned.”

The shopkeeper grunted unhappily in response and Newt took the opportunity to levitate the dozen or so bowtruckle off the drawer and into a travel box he had brought along with him. He stepped away from the drawer as the young shopkeeper busied himself with wiping invisible marks from the highly polished wood. Turning away from the obviously displeased shopkeeper, Newt scanned his surrounding — he spotted Draco’s head of platinum blond hair easily and made his way towards the young man.

With his black coat slung over his arm, Draco cut quite the figure in the slim fitted black trousers and equally black formfitting turtleneck sweater he had opted to wear. His blond hair was pushed up and away from his face, highlighting his already sharp features to the point of harshness. Newt fought the frown that made to settle across his own face at the obvious exhaustion with which Draco carried himself — his fair skin was sallow with lack of sleep, the circles beneath his eyes startling. Although he was tall and slender of build, the obvious lack of care with which he treated himself showed in his figure: elbows too sharp and fingers just a little too boney, wrists that protruded just a little too much for comfort, skin just a little too tight across his bones. He was by no means unattractive, yet he looked too sickly for little else to go noticed.

The platinum haired man was gazing intently into a glass display cabinet — Newt approached quietly before stopping to stand at Draco’s side. Inside the cabinet were a number of hourglasses of varying sizes, some with their running sand pouring backwards, other with sand suspended mid-fall. There were several astronomical sphere rings made of gold, a medium sized brass astrolabe and a bronze armillary sphere. The item Draco seemed most interested in, however, was a bell jar which contained an antique gold clock with a revolving pendulum.

“It reminds me of something I’ve seen before.” Draco murmured.

The hands of the clock were running backwards, yet the pendulum was spinning double the speed a normal clock should. The light above struck the highly polished metal and refracted a slice of golden light across Draco’s worn face. How a person could look both so young and old at the same time, Newt had no idea.

The tinkling of the bell at the entrance of the shop broke the two men from their seperate reveries — unlike Newt who glanced up slowly, Draco whirled almost violently, wand snapping into his hand from the concealed wand holster Newt knew he kept strapped to his forearm at almost all times. Luckily no one was near enough to have seen Draco’s excessive reaction, and the young wizard composed himself quickly, sending Newt an almost apologetic grimace. The sound of a conversation from the front of the store reached them easily.

“Mister Scamander!” The sound of the rather harassed shop keeper calling moments later alerted them to the presence of a new individual — around the same height as Draco but not nearly as hollow cheeked, the young man who had entered had thick dark hair that was brushed against his forehead in elegant waves and eyes so dark they seemed almost depthless. His full lips were curved upwards into a pleasant smile, his pale skin lustrous. He was dressed in simple block coloured robes, but even Newt with his untrained eye could tell the man before them, despite his plain attire, was the best looking man in the store by a long shot. “Mister Riddle is here from Borgin and Burkes to appraise the Japanese drawer set for a possible customer. Could you please go over the details you explained to me earlier?”

The young man offered a hand — “Tom Riddle. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Beside the rather unfortunate looking shopkeeper he had approached with, Tom Riddle was so assured in his every movement that he practically glided, so relaxed and at ease that his very presence commanded all attention. He seemed all the more attractive — velvety voice a balm compared to the hoarse and overly tense shopkeeper.

“Newt Scamander” Newt offered in response before launching into his explanation — “There’s nothing wrong with the drawer set, it’s simply made of highly magical wood, which the bowtruckle are drawn to. A mild repelling charm would be effective; that or planting a wand wood tree nearby to keep the bowtruckle drawn away.”

Tom inclined his head in consideration for a moment before turning back to the shopkeeper. “May I take another look at the drawer set?”

“Yes, of course, just one moment.” The shopkeeper babbled as he rushed to retrieve the cherry wood drawer set.

For a moment the three remaining men stood in silence — abruptly, Tom turned towards him, expression warm. “I very much enjoyed Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them. I still have my Hogwarts copy — truly an exceptional book. Are you currently working on any projects like it?”

Newt smiled. “Thank you. And no, not currently. I’ve been focussing my attention on coming up with registries for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. House calls like these are things I do in my free time, upon request.”

Tom inclined his head in understanding before his gaze travelled to Draco. Newt paused, suddenly aware of how incredibly still and rigid the platinum haired man had gone beside him — his body, which already seemed brittle and breakable, was so tense that he seemed on the verge of snapping and what little blood had been in his face had vanished, leaving him ashen and waxy, practically corpse like in appearance. For a moment Newt fretted that he had done more harm than good by asking Draco to accompany him.

“This is my assistant, Draco.” Newt supplied awkwardly.

Tom examined Draco curiously. “You look like a doppelgänger of a friend and classmate of mine who I attended Hogwarts with.”

“Do I?” Draco managed to get out, voice hoarse. “That’s an interesting scar on your neck.”

The statement was so abrupt and unexpected that Newt did a double take. Tom Riddle’s expression shuttered as if he were startled by Draco’s words and his hand came to rest on the front of his throat. Newt hadn’t noticed a thing — but Draco was far more observant than him when it came to picking things up about the people they crossed.

“A foolish accident.” Tom answered after only a slight pause. “I visited my ancestral home after many years and didn’t take into consideration how decrepit and dangerous it would be.”

“That must have been an unpleasant surprise.” Draco smiled sympathetically but his cloudy grey eyes were churning — like a storm brewing, Newt felt sure there was some sort of violence raging within Draco’s mind — at what, though, he was unsure.


End file.
